


Ask Me Again

by aw_writing_no



Series: Enough [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Frank Castle is a soft romantic fight me, I may or may not have fridged Clint's wife and fam sorry Bartons, Implied/Referenced Animal Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, There's a dog fighting ring but no explicit abuse depicted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 16:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18265580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/pseuds/aw_writing_no
Summary: “If you’re another Hydra asshole, give me a second before I have to come kill you,” the man said. “I think I got some blood in my eye.”“Definitely not one of those Nazis,” Frank said. “Depending on exactly who you are I’m either going to be the guy who kills you or your next husband. Like I said, that was pretty damn impressive.”The other man laughed, then turned to face Frank. His eyes widened slightly in recognition. “I’m hoping there’s a third option somewhere, Castle.” He resheathed the sword -- and seriously who the fuck uses a sword these days? -- and turned to walk towards Frank. “You haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”“Barton?”ORFrank doesn't think he'll ever be able to find family after he loses Maria and the kids. Somehow this doesn't stop him from proposing to Clint Barton every chance he gets.





	Ask Me Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spidergwenstefani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spidergwenstefani/gifts).



> Spidergwenstefani and I decided we would challenge each other to 5+1 challenges (5 times Frank Castle proposes + 1 time Clint says yes). Somehow this fic was far less fluffy than the prompt would lead you to believe. 
> 
> Please join us in filling the Castlehawk tag because these two are in LOVE and I have receipts (aka the three English fics in this tag).

1.

Frank was pretty sure someone just poached his mission.

 

He had been staking out the building for the better part of a week. He killed a guy who led him to another guy, whose dying words had led him to the guy that led him to this industrial complex at the edge of the city. Whoever ran the base was doing a piss poor job of maintaining the facade of an abandoned warehouse. The guards patrolling the fence wore bulletproof vests and had discreet comms in their left ears; workers arriving for their shifts could only enter after a retinal scan.

 

Somewhere in that building was a file that listed the name of every damn person involved in Operation Cerberus. All that Frank needed to do was get inside.

 

Infiltration and retrieval had never been his strong suit -- he was more of a blunt object than a surgical blade. He could go in, guns blazing, but this seemed a mission better suited for stealth. He couldn’t risk some lackey destroying the files because the big bad Punisher came bursting through the doors. So he set up camp on the roof of a nearby warehouse, watching, waiting, and drinking more black coffee than was strictly advisable.

 

Still, none of that would matter if someone else got the information before him.

 

Five minutes ago, four guards had quickly retreated into the building, leaving only one to defend the perimeter. Two minutes ago, Frank thought he heard muffled shouts from inside the warehouse. He squinted at the window, looking for movement and there -- that was a muzzle flash. Someone was inside.

 

“Fuck,” Frank growled, launching himself over the side of the building and down the fire escape. He had no idea how someone had gotten into the compound without him noticing, since he had chosen his nest specifically to monitor the single entrance. Stealth was out the window now; he shot the guard the moment he was in range. Frank didn’t wait for the body to hit the ground, catching the man by the collar and dragging him to the door. He held the man’s eye open, activating the retinal scanner, then tossed the body aside. He heard a groan, which he quickly silenced with a headshot.

 

Inside was complete carnage. How the fuck had Frank not noticed that someone was inside slaughtering everyone in sight? He followed the trail of bodies through a winding hall, pausing when he heard sounds of a struggle to his left. He peered around the corner and saw two figures engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

 

Frank stopped, trying to figure out if he should shoot one or both of the men, when a well placed punch sent the man on the right tumbling to his knees. The other man drew a long blade -- was that a fucking _sword?_ \-- and held it to the other man’s throat.

 

“Hail Hydra,” the kneeling man spat, and oh, fuck that noise. Frank felt his stomach drop. What were the files for Cerberus doing in a Hydra base? He didn’t have time to dwell on it now; he still needed to get the documents.

 

“Shut the hell up,” the other man replied.

 

“What you’re doing here won’t matter. Cut off one head --”

 

“Good idea,” the man said, and Frank only had time to register the glint of light off the blade before the severed head landed on the concrete with a thump.

 

Frank let out a low whistle. “Fuck, that was impressive.” The figure tensed, but didn’t turn to face him.

 

“If you’re another Hydra asshole, give me a second before I have to come kill you,” the man said. “I think I got some blood in my eye.”

 

“Definitely not one of those Nazis,” Frank said. “Depending on exactly who you are I’m either going to be the guy who kills you or your next husband. Like I said, that was pretty damn impressive.”

 

The other man laughed, then turned to face Frank. His eyes widened slightly in recognition. “I’m hoping there’s a third option somewhere, Castle.” He resheathed the sword -- and seriously who the fuck uses a sword these days? -- and turned to walk towards Frank. “You haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”

 

“Barton?”

 

Clint grinned, wide and menacing, and Frank couldn’t help but think that the blood on his face made the expression slightly arousing. And maybe that bullet to the head had changed him in more ways than one, because Frank had a hard time resisting the impulse to reach out and wipe a red droplet from his lips. He suddenly wanted to touch Clint more than he had wanted to touch anyone in months.

 

“Long time no see, man,” Clint said. “What’s the Punisher doing in a Hydra base?”

 

“Didn’t know it was a Hydra base,” Frank said with a shrug. “Heard there was something I need in here. Speaking of which, thanks for clearing the base for me, but I need to go find some files.”

 

Clint dug in his pocket, then held a USB drive up to the light for Frank to see. “Got you covered.”

 

Frank narrowed his eyes, assessing Clint. “You aren’t even going to ask what I need them for?”

 

“You usually don’t kill people without a reason,” Clint replied. “And if the information you need is wrapped up in Hydra, I’d say you have a pretty good reason.”

 

“You’re smarter than you look, Barton. Want to get out of here so I can get a copy of the files?”

 

“Sure.”

 

As they navigated the convoluted hallways back towards the entrance, Frank couldn’t stop glancing at Clint from the corner of his eye.

 

“Like what you see, Castle?”

 

“Just looking for your signature bow,” Frank lied easily. “Wondering who the fuck uses a sword.”

 

“I used a gun to kill most of them.” Clint sounded a little defensive, and Frank couldn’t help smiling at his discomfort. “But a sword really sends a message.”

 

“I certainly got some kind of message. So that’s a no on the proposal then?”

 

Clint laughed. “I’m not marrying you, Castle.”

 

“Shame, I’m a great trophy husband.”

 

“I’m sure you’re excellent arm candy, but I can’t exactly show you off at red carpet events now can I?”

 

“Is that why you said no? Can’t have an Avenger being seen strutting around with the lowly Punisher?”

 

Clint stopped walking so suddenly that Frank was several steps ahead before he realized Clint was no longer with him. Frank turned to face him.

 

Clint gestured at the three bodies that were in sight of the entrance, at the bloody footprints behind they left behind them after they had casually walked through blood and gore. “Does this look like Avengers business to you?”

 

“No,” Frank conceded. “No, it looks like my kind of business.”

 

Clint smirked, his gaze sweeping over Frank’s body. “Yeah, I guess it does. Want to grab some dinner while we go over the files? I know a great pizza place near here.”

 

“I will make you homemade pizza if it makes you reconsider my proposal.”

 

“Coming on a little strong here, Castle. But I guess we’ll have to see how good your pizza is.”

* * *

 

2.

It took them weeks to sort through all the files Clint has stolen from the base. There was no logical order to documents, and everything needed to be decrypted before they could access them. The long download times would normally make Frank’s skin crawl, but being able to touch Clint whenever he wanted was a goddamn revelation.

 

They passed their days reading an obscene amount of Hydra memos while eating shitty takeout and fucking on every surface of Clint’s apartment. It became a bit of a competition between them, seeing who could make the other come before the documents finished loading.  

 

Frank had always loved soft women, loved Maria’s curves and the way her body would just yield to his. But Clint, Clint was anything but soft. Every time they came together was a struggle, Clint grinning against his lip as he pinned Frank’s hands above his head, laughing outright when Frank got the upperhand to slam him against a wall. Frank would take advantage of every time his lips parted, exploring Clint’s mouth with his tongue while Clint would pull away to bite the skin on his throat. Fucking Clint left Frank with the same rush of adrenaline he got after a fight, electricity that started where his fingers touched Clint and buzzed through his veins until his entire body was on fire.

 

The day Frank found out about Clint’s family he gently wiped the tears off his cheeks, pressing his lips against Clint’s and kissing him so deeply he could feel himself getting lost in it. His hands roamed over Clint’s arms, his chest, grounding him in the moment, reminding him that they were alive, that they were _here_. He sank to his knees, whispering apologies against Clint’s skin as he went. He kissed along the inside of Clint’s thighs, traced the hard lines of muscle with his tongue before pulling Clint’s boxers down.

 

If Frank didn’t have so many people left to kill, he thought he could die a happy man with Clint’s cock in his mouth.

 

Frank got more than he was expecting when they finally found the documents on Operation Cerberus. There were files on each of the men in charge, lists of targets who were good men that stood in the way of Hydra. There was even a photo of Agent Orange and Billy Russo -- goddamnit, _Billy_ \-- with Alexander Pierce.

 

“Fuck,” Frank said, staring at the photo. “Fuck!” He slammed his hand against the table, then stood abruptly, kicking his chair away. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

 

“Frank, hey.” Clint stood up and followed him, putting a hand on his back. “Hey, it’s okay.”

 

“The fuck it is,” Frank snarled, shoving Clint’s hand away from him. He punched the wall, barely noticing when the skin over his knuckles cracked. He hit it again, leaving a bloody print and a dent in the drywall.

 

“You’re lucky I own the building, otherwise they’d take that out of my security deposit,” Clint said dryly. Frank glared at him. “Dude, I get it, okay?”

 

“You have no idea what I’m feeling right now.”

 

Clint snorted. “You’re right. I, a former SHIELD agent, could not possibly know what it feels like to kill for a living, rationalize it because you’re doing it for the good guys, and then have it turn out that everything you know was a lie and you’ve been working for Nazis for decades.”

 

Frank paused, turned to look at him. “Okay, maybe you kind of get it.”

 

“Yeah, man,” Clint said with a sad smile. “They killed my family too, remember?”

 

“Shit,” Frank said. “Shit, Clint, I’m sorry.”

 

“I know,” Clint said simply. He took Frank’s bloodied hand in his and pressed his lips to the unbroken skin just above his knuckles. “Let’s just go sit so we can figure out how to kill every last one of these fuckers, okay?”

 

Frank rolled his eyes. “So romantic, Clint.”

 

Clint grinned. “Please, as if excessive violence doesn’t make you want to blow me.”

 

“Nah,” Frank said. “Makes me want to marry ya.”

 

“We don't have time for a wedding between taking down all these Hydra assholes. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get caught one of these days.”

 

“All the more reason to get married,” Frank reasoned. “Can’t testify against each other.”

 

“As if they’re going to take us alive. Anyway, I think our next stop should be this bar in Queens, I’ve seen some ex-SHIELD agents lurking there. Hit them when their drunk, get all the info we can?”

 

“I’m down, but only if you steal me a bottle of whiskey.”

 

“As long as you don’t get whiskey dick, I’ll steal you the whole damn bar.”

 

“Like I said, Clint. You’re so romantic.”

* * *

 

3.

“We need to leave,” Clint said, his voice low and urgent even though he appeared perfectly calm as he sat back at the table. “This place is about to go to shit.”

 

“We haven’t even gotten our appetizers yet,” Frank said uneasily. What the fuck did Clint mean this place was about to go to shit? Frank had chosen this place specifically _because_ there weren’t any mob ties or Hydra connections, although he had told Clint the exact opposite. He honestly just wanted an excuse to go somewhere nice with Clint -- he had had a sneaking suspicion that Clint would look gorgeous dressed up, and damn if he wasn’t right. It took almost all of his will power not to lead Clint to the bathroom by his tie and fucking _ruin_ him.

 

“I know, it’s a damn shame, but any minute now someone is going to find the guy I stabbed in the bathroom and we should probably be gone by then.”

 

“You _stabbed_ someone?” Frank buried his face in his hands with a groan. “Fuck, I made it up, Clint. This isn’t some secret Hydra stronghold, this is a date.”

 

“No shit,” Clint said with a smile. “You’re not that great a liar, Frank. And it’s fine, I know him.”

 

Frank raised his head to stare at Clint. “Oh you know him, that makes the stabbing fine.”

 

Clint took a long sip of his red wine, making eye contact with Frank over the brim of his glass. He raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you approved of me stabbing number-one-Hydra-fuckface Brock Rumlow.”

 

“Rumlow was here?” Frank hissed.

 

“Yeah, I think I interrupted him on a date. Which is ironic really, because he totally fucking ruined ours.”

 

“I thought you would have enjoyed stabbing Rumlow.”

 

“Oh don’t get me wrong, it was delightful. But I was really looking forward to drinking too much wine with you and then ordering a chocolate mousse to go.”

 

Frank stared at Clint, mouth agape as his mind was overwhelmed by images of just what Clint was planning on doing with that mousse. “We can uh... we can still do that.”

 

Clint smirked. “I think the man bleeding out in the bathroom is going to take away from the romantic atmosphere a bit.”

 

“What did you find in the bathroom to stab him with?”

 

“I stabbed him in the femoral artery with my pocket fork.”

 

“You keep a fork in your pocket?”

 

“That’s the detail you’re focusing on? Not the fact that I stabbed Rumlow in the femoral artery?”

 

Frank paused, thinking about how much strength it would take to force a blunt fork through skin and thigh muscles in order to puncture the artery. And maybe there was something wrong with him, but he was pretty turned on by the thought.

 

“Marry me,” he breathed, as if Maria’s wedding ring wasn’t still hanging from his dog tags and Laura’s ring wasn’t sewn into the lining of Clint’s tactical suit. It must have been just a shade too far on this side of sincere, because Clint look at him, startled.

 

Before Clint could respond, they heard shouts from the direction of the bathroom.

 

“That’s our cue,” Clint said, holding out a hand to help Frank up. He laced their fingers together and they strolled out of the restaurant, hand in hand, as chaos erupted behind them.

* * *

4.

“Where are we going?”

 

“I told you,” Clint said, flicking Frank in the ear. “It’s a surprise.” He laughed when Frank shoved him against the brick wall.

 

“Hate surprises,” Frank muttered.

 

“You’ll like this one. Trust me.”

 

And the thing was, Frank did. He trusted Clint implicitly, would follow him into any fight. Hell, he’d probably follow him _away_ from any fight. He wasn’t sure when that changed, when chasing the taste of Clint’s lips became more important than chasing the men who took their families. Clint hummed to himself as they walked, a tune Frank swore he knew but sounded more beautiful than he recalled.

 

Finally Clint stopped, pointed at a rusted door. “Through there.”

 

“You going to tell me where we are now?”

 

“Dog fighting kennel.”

 

“You brought me to a fucking dog fight?”

 

“It’s your birthday present,” Clint replied, unfazed by Frank’s tone. “I figured we could kill everybody in charge and scare the shit out of everybody else.”

 

“Fuck, you’re perfect.”

 

“Only the best for you,” Clint said, leaning in to press a kiss on Frank’s lips. He pulled a black ski mask from his pocket and handed it to Frank. “Probably don’t want our name attached to this one.”

 

“Don’t want your name attached to it,” Frank grumbled. He had no problem with dog fighters being frightened of the Punisher. But even if Clint had left Hawkeye behind him, he still struggled to be known with his new identity, to be known as a vigilante. Frank couldn’t help but feel guilty about dragging Clint into the muck with him.

 

Clint yanked the ski mask over his face. “Whatever, Frank. Do you want to go kill some monsters or not?”

 

“After you, dear.”

 

There was nothing Frank loved more than watching Clint in a fight. He was like a dancer, every move fluid and elegant, ruthlessly efficient. Frank was raw power, tearing through the enemy like a wolf set loose in a pen of sheep. Screams mingled with the barks and howls; blood of evil men joined that of animals on the floor.

 

When it was done, Frank stood to the side panting, surveying the damage. Clint was kneeling in front of one of the dogs, talking in a soft, soothing voice. He held firm as the dog bared its teeth, waited as growls faded into whines. The grin on his face when the dog inched closer to lick his outstretched hand was one of the most beautiful things Frank had ever fucking seen.

 

“Hey, Clint?” Frank whispered, not wanting to frighten the dog or ruin the serenity of this moment.

 

“Yeah, babe?”

 

Frank’s stomach twisted at the term of endearment. Clint was soft, so fucking soft, maintaining his smile even through the tragedy and violence they surrounded themselves with. He was bad jokes and sharp gasps in the dark, a feral smile as he stabbed a knife through someone’s spine.

 

“Marry me, and I’ll buy you a house with a yard big enough for all these dogs.”

 

Clint scratched the dog’s ear. “As if we can’t fit two of them in our shitty apartment.”

 

“ _Our_ apartment?”

 

Clint stood up slowly, making his way over to Frank with light footsteps to prevent any of the dogs from being startled. He wrapped his arms around Frank’s waist.

 

“Our apartment,” he repeated. “When was the last time you spent the night at your place?”

 

“Can’t remember.”

 

“See? Now, pick your favorite, and then we’ll call the cops from a payphone on the way home.”

 

Frank grinned, pressed a kiss against Clint’s forehead. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

* * *

5.

They finally had a lead on Agent Orange.

 

An anonymous spook, going by the name Micro, had sent Clint an encrypted file he had gotten from the CIA. There were videos of Operation Cerberus, of Frank pulling the trigger and killing a good man. Clint held his hand as they watched the videos and went through all the documents. They learned Agent Orange’s true name -- William Rawlinson, head of Covert Operations in the CIA. They learned his aliases, his favorite hideouts. Now all they had to do was find him.

 

They set up camp on the roof of a building across from Rawlinson’s DC apartment, armed with sniper rifles and an entire diner’s worth of shitty black coffee. Clint lay on his stomach, peering through the scope of a rifle, waiting for movement in the apartment.

 

“Hey, Clint.”

 

“Yeah, Frank?”

 

“Guess what my new vest is made of.”

 

“I sure as hell hope it’s Kevlar, because I definitely need you in one piece after all of this is done.”

 

“That’s sweet, but you’re ruining my line. Ask me what it’s made out of.”

 

Clint sighed. “What’s your vest made out of, Frank?”

 

“ _Husband material_.”

 

Clint snorted, but didn’t look up from the scope of the rifle. “If I wasn’t sure it would give away our position, I would shove you right out of our sniper nest for that line.”

 

“Aw, c’mon babe,” Frank whined. “You love shitty jokes. And you’ve turned down all my other proposals, I figured I’d try one that was more up your alley.”

 

“I am a big fan of horrible puns.”

 

“See, you wouldn’t push me off the building. You love me too much.” Shit. That wasn’t what Frank meant to say.

 

Clint finally looked away from the scope. His eyes met Frank’s, a soft smile playing across his lips.

 

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Yeah, I do.”

 

In that moment Frank didn’t care if Clint shoved him off the building, because he was pretty sure he would just float all the way down. His chest ached, heart thumping against his sternum. Fuck, he wished they were home, where he could cover Clint’s skin with kisses and fuck him slowly, until the words came tumbling from Clint’s mouth in a series of moans and whimpers.

 

Instead, he handed Clint the thermos, because the only other thing that Clint loved for certain was coffee.

 

“I love you too.”

 

They spent the next few hours in silence, waiting to spring into action at any moment. Until then, they would just take comfort in the solid presence of each other.

* * *

+1

Frank wasn’t sure how, but it had all gone to shit. He had been waiting outside their favorite pizzeria, scanning the crowd for Clint’s familiar figure, when a bag was shoved over his head and he was being pulled into a van. Fuck, he had gotten complacent.

 

Russo and Rawlinson had taken him to God knows where, tied him to a chair and repeatedly beat the shit out of them. They kept asking him for the files, the videos Micro had sent them and the documents they had stolen from that Hydra base over a year ago.

 

Frank didn’t tell them anything. To lead them to the files would be to lead them to Clint, and Frank would rather die than put Clint in danger. But he still weathered every punch, every shock, because while Frank wouldn’t hesitate to die for Clint, he sure as hell would fight to live for him.

 

“Just give it up, Frank,” Russo said, his voice soft and reasonable. “You have to know we already won. There’s nothing left for you. No one left to fight for.”

 

A figure moved in the shadows behind Rawlinson. Frank grinned, splitting his lip and adding to the mess of blood on his face.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Billy,” he said. “I’ve found someone I’d move heaven and hell for. And he’s going to be really pissed when he finds you’ve taken what is his.”

 

Russo didn’t have a chance to reply. Rawlinson collapsed to his knees with a surprised groan, an arrow protruding from his chest. Russo whirled around, drawing his gun, ready to shoot. The next arrow caught him in the throat.

 

Clint emerged from the darkness, stalking over to Rawlinson’s prone form on the floor. Frank’s stomach twisted when he saw the Punisher skull sprayed onto Clint’s tactical vest. Clint got to his knees and punched Rawlinson in the jaw.

 

“That’s for Laura,” he spat. “For Cooper.” Another punch landed, and Frank heard Rawlinson’s zygomatic fracture. “Lila. Nathaniel.” Every name was accentuated with another blow. “Maria. Lisa. Frank Jr.” He stopped for a moment, chest heaving. “And this... this is for trying to take Frank from me.” He lifted Rawlinson’s head up, then slammed it back against the concrete. Frank saw his skull shatter, saw blood and grey matter ooze onto the floor.

 

Frank had wanted to be the one to kill Russo and Rawlinson, but watching Clint beat Rawlinson to death was practically poetry in motion.

 

“I knew you’d find me,” Frank said, voice cracking around his bruised larynx and the sheer overwhelming emotion of their fight finally being over. “Want to come untie me?”

 

Clint stood, staring at Frank with a blank expression on his face.

 

“Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

 

Clint stalked towards him, not saying a word. Then suddenly he was in Frank’s lap, straddling him in the chair and pulling him into a bruising kiss. Frank hissed as Clint pressed his body against his broken ribs, as his thighs squeezed against the bullet wound in Frank’s quadriceps. But the pain didn’t matter; all that mattered was Clint, surrounding him and breathing his air, refusing to pull away from his lips even though their kiss tasted like the copper saltiness of Frank’s blood. Frank wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, kissing like the world was ending around them. He wished his hands were untied to that he could get his hands on Clint, feel his body shuddering underneath his touch.

 

Finally Clint pulled away, panting, and rested his forehead against Frank’s.

 

“Ask me again,” Clint whispered, his voice hoarse.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“No," Clint growled, nipping at an expanse of unbroken skin behind Frank's ear. " _Ask._ Me. Again.”

 

Frank’s smile was brilliant and wide, spreading across his face as if his nose wasn’t broken and one eye wasn’t swollen shut.

 

“Clint Barton, will you marry me?”

 

“Yes. Never leaving you again.” Clint kissed him, slowly, reverently, each movement of his lips an act of worship.

 

Then he stood up, walking around the back of the chair to cut through Frank’s bonds. He moved to help Frank up, slinging Frank’s arm over his shoulders and taking the majority of his weight. They began to limp towards the exit.

 

“Wait,” Frank said. “We should collect your arrows. They might as well be a calling card.”

 

“Leave them,” Clint replied. “I want everyone to know. If anyone dares to take the Punisher again, Hawkeye will come for them.”

 

“Thought you were becoming the Punisher 2.0 based on your vest.”

 

Clint shrugged. “Didn’t have time to get a ring. Wanted something to show I was yours.”

 

“Mine,” Frank said, savoring the word on his tongue.

 

“Yours,” Clint repeated, and led them out of the building, bruised but not broken. They made their way home, where Clint dug the bullet out of Frank’s thigh and stitched his wounds shut.

 

It wasn’t happily ever after, but it was enough.

  



End file.
